Purpose
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Abandon All Hope missing scenes: Sometimes the only thing left to do that makes any sense is taking care of the ones you love.


**Purpose**  
K Hanna Korossy

One minute they were in a field outside Carthage, watching Lucifer win another battle, if not the war. The next, Cas had sprung them and the car back to South Dakota, in front of Bobby's place.

Turned out beaming around angel-style wasn't the best thing for a concussion. Dean felt his stomach lurch up into his mouth and bent over to christen the dirt.

A strong arm immediately hooked around his middle, keeping him from face-planting in what was about to become very messy ground, but also pressing on his gut. That pushed Dean over the edge, and the meager contents of his stomach started spewing, each heave rocketing through his battered head.

Over the embarrassing noises he was making, he thought he heard Cas start to ask a question. Sam growled a terse response, the vibrations of his voice rumbling down his arm into Dean. A moment later, Cas's shoes were gone from the periphery of his vision and a second arm had joined the first, this one flat against his chest.

Dean surrendered to the nausea then. Beat giving in to the scream that was struggling to push out of him.

When he was done, only working to dislodge the strings of spit that were still hanging from his jaw, Sam shifted and a handkerchief dangled in front of Dean's face. He took it, swiping it across his mouth, then balled it and dropped it onto the fouled earth. Sam silently pulled him back up and began steering him toward the house with one arm tucked around his waist. They staggered up the stairs, the ground still shaky under Dean's feet.

Bobby met them at the door. Even with blurred vision, Dean could see how pale and raw his face was. "You two okay?"

Dean nodded, wobbling a little when the motion threw his balance off even more. Sam's grip tightened.

Bobby's look revealed he saw through the lie but knew they had bigger issues just then. "Jo an' Ellen?" he asked more quietly.

Dean looked away. Again he heard and felt Sam quietly talking, if not catching a bit of meaning. His head and stomach were at war, but that wasn't even close to the worst pain he felt.

"Don't suppose Lucifer's back in solitary?" Bobby asked hopelessly.

This time neither of them answered. Sam's arm fell away without a fight when Dean shuffled a step away from him.

Bobby's jaw jumped, Dean could see it from the periphery of his unreliable vision, and turned to wheel himself back into the house. Sam and Dean automatically followed.

He was supposed to feel something, he knew. He'd felt shock and disbelief when Dad had been taken out, utter despair when Sam had died. Now, though… Deep, dark pain had settled inside him, but it was blanketed by numbness, and Dean had no intention of poking at it. He needed time to think, to process. To get himself strong for when the grief would really hit.

Sam didn't ask or order, just lodged a hand at the small of his back and led him into the downstairs bathroom. He turned the water on and left. By the time Dean had shucked his clothes, Sam was back, stacking fresh laundry on the closed toilet lid before giving him a long, assessing look that somehow avoided their eyes meeting, then retreating again.

Dean climbed into the shower, expecting tears to flow as the water hit his face but feeling nothing but that still-pressing urge to start screaming and not stop.

Maybe he'd reached his limit. Maybe this was his brain's way of protecting him from starting to fall and never stopping. Maybe he'd lost one too many people and couldn't handle the pain anymore without breaking.

Maybe he was just really friggin' tired.

Dean washed the dirt of another failure and fire off him, hand sometimes pressing hard against the slick tile to keep himself from toppling over. He stood in the cold bathroom a long moment when he was done, distantly bewildered that he was still living and breathing and chilled when Jo and Ellen wouldn't be feeling anything else. Then he dried himself off and got dressed, sitting on the toilet seat to put on his jeans. Sam had enough on his plate without stitching up a gashed forehead from Dean falling over into the sink.

Sam… His brother hadn't said a word to him since Dean had stirred back to sluggish life under the tree he'd forcefully encountered. He should probably go check on the kid, make sure he was doing okay. Dean wasn't sure what had gone on between Lucifer and Sam while he'd been examining the insides of his eyelids, but they probably hadn't been swapping recipes.

His head was doing that light, dizzy thing, though, and when Dean's eyes fell on the couch as he left the bathroom, his good intentions died a quick death. The cushions looked soft and steady, and he was so tired and sick and just…sick and tired. Sam would be okay. Probably had gone upstairs to hit the shower Bobby couldn't use anymore.

Dean stumbled to the sofa, remembering sleeping there just the night before while the women had taken the beds. Then he sank down into the worn material, dropped his head back with a sigh, and stopped remembering anything at all.

00000

Too exhausted to dream, Dean hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep until warmth touched his face. He blearily pried his eyes open, then slapped them shut again. A stupid sunbeam had managed to pierce the dirty living room window and climb across the floor, up into his face, and wasn't that just awesome? With a groan, Dean sat up.

Someone had tossed a blanket over him during the night. It pooled around his waist, and he wearily shoved it off as he climbed to his feet. And rode out the vertigo and weakness that threatened to dump him back onto the couch. Maybe he should've taken those pills Sam had left with his clothes the night before, but feeling even this misery was better than not feeling anything at all. Dean palmed his eyes until he saw stars, then stumbled his way to the bathroom.

Emptying his bladder also cleared his head a little. Enough to deliberately avoid the table Ellen and Jo had done their drinking at just two short days before. The memory hit for a second of Jo's mouth pressed remorsefully to his, sending Dean reeling into a door jamb, but he closed his eyes and willed it back. No. He wasn't ready. Maybe never would be.

Bobby was sacked out in the downstairs room Dean and Sam had cleaned out and painted for him before he'd come home from the hospital. His wheelchair was shoved up against the bed, and an empty bottle of Scotch lay on the floor next to it. Bobby was also still in his clothes, although his cap wasn't in sight, but a blanket had been spread over him, too. It would've taken too much energy to smile, but a corner of Dean's brain smirked: mother-hen Sam struck again.

Speaking of which…

Dean wandered back out into the living room, ignoring the way the scenery continued to rock a little around him, and grunted his way up the stairs. Figured Sam would be the one to do it right, going to their actual room and getting into bed instead of just passing out wherever he landed. He'd probably even put his jammies on, the giant pansy.

"Dude. Sa—" Dean's voice died as he pushed open the door of the room he and Sam usually shared, only to gaze on two untouched beds. They were still pristine from the feminine hands that had made them up the previous morning.

Huh.

"Sam?" he called, loud enough to carry throughout the upstairs level but hopefully not enough to stir Sleeping Bobby downstairs. Dean checked out the other bedrooms, then the silent and untouched bathroom for good measure, before heading back downstairs with a frown.

The kitchen was empty, used shot glasses strewn across the counter. The study was quiet except for the popping, dying fire, and the only person in Bobby's room was Bobby. Anxiety rising a little with every absence of Sam, Dean quickly checked the basement and laundry room and even the panic room. Nada.

"Where the…," he circled the study and kitchen again in case he'd somehow missed six-foot-four of brother, "… did you go?"

Sam wasn't in the house. The numbness inside Dean shivered, unwelcome thoughts pressing their way in.

It was Jo who invaded Dean's memories, the should'ves and could'ves and might'ves. It was Jo his heart wanted to mourn for—the sister and maybe lover he'd never had—if only he'd let it. Ellen's loss made him flinch, but Jo's was the real deadness inside him.

But Sam…Sam had adopted Ellen Harvelle. Sammy hadn't had a mom like Dean had, and the kid had searched for replacements all his life, from maternal neighbors to classmates' friendly moms to, in some way, a cookie-baking girlfriend. He'd taken Ellen into his heart far more quickly than Dean had made room for the Harvelles. And now he'd lost her. To a fire, and an enemy he'd released.

Then witnessed Lucifer survive their one shot at him. And watched Dean go down. And had a confrontation with the devil that had left tear tracks on his face that were still obvious when Dean finally came to.

And was now gone.

Dean rushed toward the front door, grasping at furniture along the way to keep from falling over. The urge to scream was ripping through him now, numbness dissolving into panic. The Harvelles' death _hurt_, but nothing had ever compared to the black hole of Sam dying in his arms. And now he was _gone _and there was no note, no sign, no…

Dean slid out onto the porch, and a junkyard that glittered almost beautifully with frost. He was aware of none of it, bellowing "Sam!" into the frigid early morning air. "Sammy, answer me!"

Nothing. But the car was still there. Which left…

Dean's overwhelmed brain couldn't quite figure out what that left. His feet just started moving because he couldn't think to do anything else, heading for the left side of the house. "Sam!" He had to—

Dean almost ran into his brother as he turned the corner.

"Sam! What the—?"

It only took that second to realize something was wrong—well, more wrong than it already had been. Sam stumbled past Dean as if he weren't even aware of him, arms wrapped around a frame wracked with shivers beneath a thin spring jacket. His eyes were sore-looking, red and swollen, and his blue lips formed words Dean couldn't hear.

"Sam." He grabbed Sam's forearm and slid his grip down to one icy hand. It was stiff and chapped, frozen in a rictus grip around his other arm. Dean tried to peel the cold fingers loose, wondering how much exposure it had taken to get them like that. There were deep scuff marks in the dirt at Sam's feet circling the house, evidence of more than a few trips around. "Sam. Hey. Talk to me."

Sam blinked, his gaze slipping up to the top of Dean's shirt and then away again. So, not completely out of it then, just didn't wanna play. But Sam's mouth continued to move, and Dean finally leaned in to hear what he was saying.

"…_doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It…" _

The wave of terror that had ebbed with finding Sam rose again. Dean didn't ask and didn't want to know if Sam was pleading or despairing, but the desolation was obvious. It was too much, too much on top of his own despair, Dean's mind groaned, but it wasn't a choice. It was a need. Sam's need.

"Come on," Dean said roughly and tugged his glacier of a brother up the stairs into Bobby's considerably warmer house.

Sam was compliant if not really reactive. Dean maneuvered him around Bobby's heavy desk and pushed him down in front of the glowing embers in the fireplace, much as Sam had taken charge of him the night before. Dean didn't want to think about at what point Sam's reality train had slipped its tracks or how long he'd wandered outside in the cold darkness, muttering schizophrenically to himself. Or how low he'd have to have sunk to do so.

"Stay there a minute," Dean ordered, then shifted around on his knees so he could reach the logs and tinder Bobby had piled by the fireplace. It took a few minutes to build the fire back up, and Dean could hear Sam's teeth chattering behind him the whole time.

Getting to his feet was harder with each attempt. After the total helplessness of before, however, having a purpose gave Dean fresh energy. He managed to pull himself up by holding on to the desk, eyes fleetingly falling on the picture Bobby had taken of the six of them the night before. Dean's face felt like a mask, stiff and stoic, as he peeled away from the desk to hobble into the kitchen.

Teakettle put on, he segued into the living room to grab the discarded blanket off the sofa and returned to the fireplace to wrap it around Sam. His brother still wasn't responding, deflated like an airless beach ball under the plaid blanket and unbelievably small. Dean grimaced and went back to the kitchen.

Bobby kept a box of tea for Sam, and Dean fixed a cup with extra sugar and a splash of whiskey. When he was in the study again, he eased himself down next to the shivering figure.

"Here, get some of this down." Dean tried to wrap rigid, shaking fingers around the warm mug before finally giving up, tipping it himself against Sam's lips and rubbing at his jaw until he unlocked it and let the hot liquid trickle in.

Sam gasped, sputtering a little, then drank deeper.

"Good boy," Dean said quietly, as if Sam were three again and taking his medicine. Dean had always been his mother in lieu of the real thing, but he'd been glad for Sam's relationship with Ellen. People, even isolated hunters like themselves, still needed human connections, and Sam had lost every woman in his life.

Yet again, Dean realized belatedly, and felt his eyes sting.

Sam drank two-thirds of the mug before making a small sound of rejection. Dean pulled the mug away, setting it atop the desk behind them, then reaching for Sam's hands again. They were still too cold, white-blue under the nail beds, and while they didn't seem frostbit, circulation had to be restored. He started kneading the cold flesh. "What were you doing out there, anyway, dude? We didn't lose enough people last night without you freezing to death?" He winced even as he said it. He could remember a Sam who was scared of dying. Now, sometimes he wondered if his brother didn't wish for it sometimes, more terrified of staying alive.

Sam's dull eyes blinked once, his mouth continuing to stumble over words. But, Dean realized, the mantra had changed.

"_N-nothing matters. N-nothing—"_

Dean's eyes shot up, and he chewed his lip viciously against the cry that clawed at his throat. He wanted to yell and rage, to punish _someone _for halving his small extended family that night, to demand an explanation from the brother who seemed to know everything.

But Sam wasn't up to any explaining just then. If Dean's brain refused to acknowledge the pit inside him, Sam's had headed straight for it, always so anxious to understand and deal with everything, and couldn't seem to find its way back out.

Dean used the hand he held to pull Sam close to him, freezing skin against his own just making him burrow closer. He worked Sam's jacket off, opened his over-shirt and then Dean's own, and pulled Sam into an embrace that offered at least warmth if nothing else.

Except maybe one thing.

"It matters," he insisted. "Those people in Carthage matter. Ellen and Jo matter. You and me and Bobby, we matter. _You_ matter, Sam."

Sam tapered off, his teeth still faintly clattering and his breath cold puffs against Dean's cheek.

"Maybe we can't fix this, but we're gonna end it. They didn't die for nothing, Sam. We won't let them."

Sam whined softly, a vocalization of the grief Dean felt. His chin dug into Dean's collarbone, his fingers flexing against his brother's still queasy stomach. "'S-s funny," he surprised Dean by whispering, voice shaking as much as his body.

"What?" Dean asked warily.

"Dad got Bill Harvelle k-killed. Then we c-c-come along an' wipe out the rrrest of—"

"Don't say it," Dean warned. "Don't you finish that."

Sam fell silent.

Dean pulled the blanket that had slid halfway down his back to cocoon around them both. The fire was finally starting to give off some heat, and the flames reminded him of the exploding hardware store. "She came back for me," he mumbled without meaning to.

Sam's palm flattened against the bottom of his ribs. "They loved us."

"Yeah," Dean conceded, eyes shut tight. "They did."

"I d-didn't know you felt that way 'bout—"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Dean…"

"Just…don't," he pleaded. He'd talk about whatever Sam needed, but if he let himself crack open, he'd never rein it all back in.

Sam sighed but shut up.

His shivers increased, then began to diminish. He hadn't embraced Dean back, but his boneless weight against his big brother was a silent acceptance. Dean pulled him in tighter and tucked his own face in against the melting damp of Sam's hair. The cold leeching out of him was starting to make Dean shiver, too.

But he realized slowly that he did feel stronger, the building scream starting to fade, the tightness in his chest easing enough that he could breathe. He couldn't fix himself, couldn't find a reason to keep fighting or even begin to see hope after the night before. But there was clarity and purpose in taking care of Sam, even comfort. Even when nothing else made sense. Even after everything they'd been through.

"We're not done," Dean vowed low and rough, gently scruffing the back of Sam's neck. "We've still got each other, and we're making our own future, Sammy, remember?"

He was pretty sure he felt a trickle of wet down his neck at the _Sammy_, but all Dean knew for sure was the nod that ruffled his hair against Sam's and repeatedly stabbed that pointy chin into the meat of his shoulder.

Dean patted his head, then pulled back enough to settle beside Sam so they were both facing the fire.

When Bobby found them there later, none of them said a word, not even when they held a makeshift funeral pyre in the fireplace and watched the last picture of the Harvelle women burn.

**The End**


End file.
